Let’s talk about social anxiety for a moment, shall we?

More specifically, let’s talk about MY social anxiety for a moment. Those who may think I am superfab, may want to read this whole ass-long entry and be educated in one of the realities of “Being Loralee”.

On Sunday, I was invited to participate in a blog reading with 10 other fabulous people (All of whom are funnier than I am. Seriously.) It was appropriately titled “Live Blogging Thingy ‘08″.

Here we are, from left to right:

Barnson, Sra, Carrie, Sterkworks, Jon Deal (Who I snagged these photos from. I am lame and left my camera in my purse.), Pete, Me (The anxiety-riddled Amazon), Sarah, Miss Pants and Singing Cicada

Looks fun, no?

This mic had incredibly good sound quality and pickup.

That doesn’t look so bad, right?

Wrong.

Before I begin I have to say that this reading was the HIGH point of the day and that I did have fun and a good time. (Promise!)

To understand, you need to hear about how my morning went before I even got up to the pulpit to speak. I have a hard time meeting new people. Especially when I am on my own. This was also the first “Big” thing I faced without having a can of Diet Coke in my hand. I know that sounds lame but as I’ve said, I feel like Linus sans security blanket.

I started off fighting with my spouse, which never puts me in a grand mood. I thought I left Provo in plenty of time to get to downtown Salt Lake. Not only that, but I alloted for “Down Time” to find a quiet corner and review my readings, put my notes in order and take a few deep breaths before going into the presentation.

That was before I came to the conclusion that the Universe considers me its favorite toy to eff with.

First, I got pulled over for going SIX MILES over the speed limit. I was also chastised for my gas door being broken and part of my front fog light grill missing. I was beginning to think that he wasn’t really a cop, but one of those people with fake badges and uniforms that get women to pull over because of some trifling thing and they end up ravaged and dismemebered in multiple hefty bags in a landfill somewhere.

He didn’t even give me a fix it ticket or written warning.

It was very bizarre.

When I left, I was so rilled that I got off on the wrong exit and then became totally lost. Not difficult to do when you have the directional sense of dirt. I seemed to get more and more lost, when it happened. I hit a pothole and my non-Diet Coke drink spattered all over the front of my shirt.

FRICK! FRACK!

What to do?

I finally found a gas station and asked for the location of the nearest on ramp. Turns out I was near Nordstrom Rack. I could write a whole post about how much I love this store, but that is a post for another day. Not wanting to risk the chance of getting lost again finding a lesser known mall location, I decided to try and find a shirt in there.

Bad call.

NOTHING FIT.

NOTHING.

Everything was either staggeringly expensive or too dressy or too tight or too hideous or too sheer and too dark to wear with a white bra.

GAH!

There was one shirt that kept catching my eye. An adorable white button down with the cutest puffed sleeves. It would have looked better with a sweater vest, but it was adorable.

The only one I could see was an extra small.

NOT.

The very flustered dressing room attendant was getting rather annoyed with my back and forth changing at record-breaking speeds. Who cared if I screwed up my hair, I had to find something to clothe my naked body.

Still nothing.

I checked my phone and saw that I had 20 minutes to get to my reading and I was still blocks away.

I made my way to the front door, resigned to show up at this event even if it meant wearing a soaking wet shirt that made me look like a nursing mother in the middle of a lactating accident, when I saw it. A peek of white puffed sleeve sticking out of the jacket section of the men’s department.

It was the shirt! In a size medium!

I didn’t even try it on, just rushed to hurry up and wait to be checked out by the cashier that was being trained.

I got into my car and raced to the library. Miraculously, I found the parking complex and changed in my car. If anyone was in the library parking lot and saw a half-dressed flustered chick in a Volkswagon Passat wagon, I’m really, really sorry.

Looking in the salty reflection of my unwashed car, I noticed that the shirt was a bit too snug and see-through, which added to the overall feeling of new, discomfort and anxiety.

Then I got lost in the library (Directional sense of dirt, remember?)

The place is huge, there were no maps and no one was available at information and I rode four different elevators to try and find someone. The only person I managed to find was the homeless guy with a slush puppy that kept getting on every elevator I was in.

By the time I found it, I was well over 15 minutes late and they were already on the second speaker.

My mouth was dry, I felt nervous, sweaty and shaky and this feeling increased when I realized that the final page of one of my posts wasn’t there.

Crap.

I scrawled down as much as I could remember on the back sheet and when it was my turn to get up to the podium, I was a freaking MESS.

My choice of selections kinda sucked. I mean, I am very proud of the entry I read about the woman in the grave next to Matthew’s, but let’s talk about bringing the room DOWN.

And my second? It was the piece I wrote about Matthew McConaughey on Friday. It wasn’t my funniest piece I’ve written by far, but I truly just didn’t have time to comb through and select a piece. I was baking fattening French food, remember?

THE WORST?

I LEFT A PAGE ON THE CHAIR NEXT TO MY SEAT.

Not the one that was missing in the first place. ANOTHER ONE.

So? I had to pull out a good 3/4ths of that post out of my ass and make it sound like I was reading it. I’ve been through lots of things like that on stage. You HAVE to learn to fly by the seat of your pants or you are DOOMED. It was kind of a blur, but I lived through it despite my throat being as dry as the Salt Flats. (I obviously failed to notice the bottled water placed so kindly on the table.)

The thing is? I usually have a dressing room to have an emotional freak out by myself afterwards.

Here? I had to meet lovely, charming people while in a state of mid-level anxiety.

Dude.

What is the worst, is the aftermath. The thinking and the analyzing on the way home. Because that is what I do. I have social encounters and then I freak out and analyze what went down and then post my shame for all the world to see.

Here are a couple of examples:

One blogger (Who shall remain anon for the time because I didn’t talk to her about writing this conversation) came up to me and said, “I wanted to pipe up and say that I like Matthew McConaugheyBECAUSE he is dirty! I think it’s a turn on. When you said you wanted to scrub him down with Lysol and a loofa I turned to my friend and said, ‘I do, too!’.”

To which, I answered some total piece of crap mumbling like, “Well, I guess it’s because when I think of him I’m picturing him as a boyfriend or husband and he’s just skanky. Maybe I should step out of the box and picture him as a dirty, whorish, one night stand to find him attractive.”

Hours later (You know, during the analyzing freak out) my mind translated that statement into the following:

“I am a pure, judgmental person who would never even fantasize about anyone outside of a monogamous relationship. Since you fantasize about “Oily Boy”, you are obviously a total whory slut who has one night stands standing up by the urinal of some random airport restroom, you slutty urinal whore, you.”

GAH!!!!

I kinda want to stick my head into the earth.

I open my mouth and lame things just pour out of it.

I’m also concerned that I may have come off as being slightly homophobic because when I was flying off the seat of my pants I am fairly certain my wording sucked and could have been misunderstood.(Which, please for the love of EVERYTHING be that not the case. I would die.).

I also rambled. OH, how I rambled.

Why can’t I keep my freaking mouth shut? Or at least train it to say non-stupid things?

When I left, one of the bloggers called out after me and we rode down the elevator together. By such a huge coincidence, the same homeless guy that I shared the last four elevators with was in the same car.

My conversation with my blogging acquaintance was very random and stuttered. I have learned to at least ATTEMPT to keep my mouth shut before unleashing anxiety and words over people. However, it’s still like plugging up a leaking hole with your finger. You may succeed at holding back a torrent, but water still seeps out.

So, what came out pretty much sounded like this:

“Argument…lost…shirt…drink…ill-fitting…cleavage…see-through…no maps…No Diet Coke…Linus without blanket…elevators…homeless-guy.”

(Tip: People LOVE this. Try it some time.)

My evening wrapped up by having decaf coffee with my friend, Rachel in Ogden. It was nice to unwind, but I’m sure I wasn’t much entertainment for her after my day.

In the end, I DID have a good time, really. I had a lot of fun and laughed at the sheer wittiness of some of these bloggers. All these people were so lovely and kind and funny. It was a blast, I just wish I had been better prepared. I also wish my social anxiety would disappear. It is much better than it used to be but MAN, does it cause me needless stress.It wasn’t nearly as bad as it has been and I know a lot of it was due to external bizzarness of things out of my control.

Still…

I need to chill the hell out.Anyone else do this? The social anxiety freak out?

Does anything that isn’t in pill form help?

It’s pretty much a given that if your brother-in-law calls to tell you that he was thinking about you in the shower, the conversation that follows is not going to be the same old, same old.

“I was thinking about you in my shower, Loralee, and I had an idea. And ideas in my shower are never wrong. I have come to the conclusion that you are the only one that can help me and the sherpa.”

Now, if you are anything like me, you are probably thinking, “HUH????”

Have any of you ever heard of a sherpa?

Because I hadn’t until today.

Basically, the sherpa people (Preferred spelling is with lower case lettering) are indigenous to Nepal in the high Himalayas. It basically translates into “East People”. The term “sherpa” is applied to an elite group of expert mountain guides that are take people on expeditions. They must be top notch in terms of physical endurance, knowledge of the local terrain and are extremely adept at high altitudes. You do not have to be an ethnic sherpa to be a sherpa, though many are.

I know what you’re thinking. What the freak do Nepalese mountain guides have to do with a stay-at-home mom who lives in Utah and has the muscle tone of head cheese and the endurance of a three-toed sloth?

I wondered the same thing.

My brother-in-law has a company that my husband consults for quite a bit. It handles high-end technical support and web design. In addition to that, my brother-in-law is also partner in a company called, “SuperSherpas”.

Two of the most famous sherpa founded it with other partners and they are relocating their families to America. (They’re in Wikipedia for the most treks up Everest and the fastest run up Everest. Meet Apa and Lhakpa) They not only guide expeditions to Mount Everest and other treks through the Himalayas, but they also sell various outdoor gear and merchandise made in Nepal. They also divert a percentage of proceeds to a charitable organization that will help children from their region get an education.

All of this is totally fascinating, but I still, even with my glorious imagination, could not come up with any fathomable reason as to how I could be involved in the information that he was telling me. You know, because of the aforementioned SAHM three-toed sloth made of head cheese thing.

“My company is designing and setting up their website and we’re having a problem. We do the technical coding, but that is just the bare bones of a good website. It needs good content. Nobody has time to write everything that needs to be written. I need someone who can immerse and obsess about Nepal and sherpa, Appa and Lhakpa and the company and put all that information onto the site so that it is user friendly and makes sense.”

“So…You need someone who digs research, who can totally obsess, write good content, and can be completely, and utterly a big techno-dork that still cannot grasp WordPress plugins and shuts down the power of San Bernardino when I try to play with my template?”

“Yes, that is basically it.”

“I am SO your girl.”

“That’s what I already figured out. You know, in my shower. Which is never wrong.”

The best part about this is that if I can pull this off well? They’ll hire me to do other projects. As in, real jobs. For my weird little set of skills. Do you know how bizarre it is for ME to actually feel and be useful? It is blowing my mind. I could write and get PAID? Awesome.

Plus, part of the compensation is free web design (Which I need) and possibly a trip to Nepal at cost. Hey, my 10th anniversary is coming up next year, although I’ve never really pictured myself as hanging out in the Himalayas before (Although, I did really dig the film, “The Golden Child“. Eddie Murphy cracks me up: “Nepal!” N-E-P-A-L! WOO HOO!”…Um…You’d have to see it.)

I have a 2 o’clock meeting at their company to meet with the other owners and to start getting a feel for what they are looking for. Part of me is scared shitless. I’ve never DONE this before. On the other hand? You know when you just KNOW that you can do something?

Yah, baby. I have that feeling.

Wish me luck.

I tend to dwell.

I dwell a lot.

Insomnia tends to exacerbate the issue.

Unfortunately, I tend to give myself tasty hunks of stupid to dwell on quite a lot, dammit.

Tonight, however, I get to dwell on more than just my lameness because my husband just made “Man Cleavage” to cheer me up. Uh…It didn’t work. Actually, it made me vomit a little in my mouth.

Great. Now I’m going to add how wrong hairy, man-boobs are to my “To-Dwell” list.

Bleck.